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452 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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" Sister,"-saith the gray swan, "Sister, I am weary," Turning to the white swan wet, despairing eyes;
" 0," she saith, " my young one." " O," she saith, " my dearie," Casts her wings about him with a storm of cries.
Woe for Lir's sweet children whom their vile stepmother
Glamoured with her witch-spells for a thousand years; Died their father raving—on his throne another —
Blind before the end came from his burning tears. She—the fiends possess her, torture her forever,
Gone is all the glory of the race of Lir, Gone and long forgotten like a dream of fever:
But the swans remember all the days that were.
Hugh, the black and white swan with the beauteous
feathers; Fiachra, the black swan with the emerald breast; Conn, the youngest, dearest, sheltered in aU
weathers, Him his snow-white sister loves the tenderest. These her mother gave her as she lay a-dying,
To her faithful keeping, faithful hath she been, With her wings spread o'er them when the tempest's crying, And her songs so hopeful when the sky's serene.
Other swans have nests made 'mid the reeds and rushes,
Lined with downy feathers where the cygnets sleep Dreaming, if a bird dreams, till the daylight blushes,
Then they sail out swiftly on the current deep, |
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